I watched them again this morning.
I borrowed my father’s glass, the one that extends,
and I cut a forked branch from the forest
to steady my arm and keep the image clear.
The boy, the dirty one, brought wild birds’ eggs and weeds in from the forest.
When he gave them to the woman, she took them from him
and she offered him her hands, holding them in front of her
open wide like a blessing. And he walked into her embrace.
They have cats now in their house, in every room.
They keep all their kittens. They drown none of them.
They walk on the beds, on the breakfast table, they feed the cats their food.
I saw the dirty boy kissing a kitten. It sickened me to see it.
He was hugging it, holding it closely against his skin inside his shirt.
When the man came home from the fields, the woman filled a tin bath with hot water
and she washed him. He was naked. She poured the water over him,
she soaped his hair, she washed him down and down,
she was doing things to him that made me feel strange.
After, they went up to the bedroom and they lay on the bed.
I can’t describe what they did. It was sorcery, I am sure of that.
I wanted to get father’s gun and run over and kill them.
They are wicked people. That’s what father says.
So. Now I will watch and watch and note and miss nothing
and I will gather in the proof and then I will tell.
And they will burn.